


She's Yar

by girlintheglen



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-24
Updated: 2013-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-21 05:04:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/896122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlintheglen/pseuds/girlintheglen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Misfortune of the seafaring variety</p>
            </blockquote>





	She's Yar

 

  
  
“She certainly is yar.  I’d give a month of dates with beautiful women to go sailing on her.”  Napoleon Solo was waxing a lush line over the photo he and Illya were handed.  The American was a sailor at heart, and his desire for a boat of his own was a private wish for the life it represented.  In spite of his penchant for danger and slippery situations, Napoleon relished the notion of smooth sailing on a cerulean blue sea.  
  
The Russian, the blond wunderkind recently relocated to the New York Headquarters of the U.N.C.L.E., had no such aspirations.  He had survived a term in the Soviet navy in which he served on a submarine that, thankfully and mercifully, caused less physical torment than sailing above the waterline.  As he looked over the photograph of the trim boat he nursed a sense of foreboding at the possibilities inherent in its presence here on the table.

“Gentlemen…’  The wizened old man who gave them their orders was ready to proceed.  Illya subdued his trepidation as Napoleon hoped fervently that they were to embark on a sailing affair.  “You have before you a photograph of a sailing vessel named, appropriately enough, The Gayle Wend.  It is a play on words, obviously, but within the joke is a diabolical plot to change the weather patterns of the earth.”  
  
That got the agents’ attention.  A raised eyebrow from the blond indicated his interest, while a quizzical ‘O’ formed an unspoken question from Solo.  
“Yes, I see you have grasped the concept and its dangerous consequences.”  
  
Illya was the first to pose a question verbally.  “Sir, how is it that this boat can be involved in something so … so completely unthinkable?  Or, perhaps it is not the boat itself…”  “Quite so, Mr. Kuryakin.  It is not the boat that will be responsible for this catastrophic intrusion into the world’s climate, but it is rather a symbol of the intentions that preoccupy the owners.”  
  
Napoleon saw his hopes waning, but his curiosity was piqued sufficiently.  “I don’t suppose the owners might be affiliated with …”  
“Yes, Mr. Solo… THRUSH.  The owners are, in fact, very much involved with THRUSH, and happen to occupy rather high positions within the Hierarchy.  This flaunting of their plans in naming the boat in this manner tells me that they are forging ahead with this scheme.”  
  
Illya was still on the question of how, rather than who.  “But, boating aside, sir … ahem… well, how is it exactly that they plan on disrupting the weather. If I may ask?”  Alexander Waverly expected this of his Soviet agent, the scientist he had nabbed out from under Harry Beldon.  And he was, in fact, the reason that the Head of UNCLE Northwest was showing his two top men this photograph.  There were days when Waverly held himself in very high esteem for the various ways in which his methods succeeded.  
  
“THRUSH has initiated a series of cloud seeding experiments that are expected to yield remarkable results.  The science is not theirs alone, even the government of the country in which we now reside have plans of their own to examine the possibilities.  Our concerns, quite obviously, are what THRUSH sees as their advantage in such technology and manipulation.”  
  
Solo and Kuryakin sat quietly, their minds at work now on the possible benefits and the probable chaos that this might yield in the hands of THRUSH.  Napoleon’s desire to sail was now settling in behind his need to halt whatever it was that THRUSH was attempting to achieve.  “Sir, what is it that we’ll be doing?  Is there a location or a machine?”  He looked at Illya as he spoke, hoping from some scientific jargon from his egghead partner that might possibly help him to better understand this situation.  
  
“Mr. Solo, you and Mr. Kuryakin are going sailing.  We are unsure whether or not there is some entrée into the actual location of their seeding project via this boat.  I suggest you find a way to get yourselves on board, and that you do it quickly. We have reason to believe that the boat will be leaving in two days on a journey to the Bahamas.  It is a distinct possibility that the project is headquartered somewhere within those islands, and it is up to the both of you to discover just where, and make certain that this … this scheme is thwarted.  Permanently.’   The eyebrows of Alexander Waverly shot up into something like a hoary exclamation point.  “Do I make myself clear, gentlemen? You are to destroy the source of this seeding project.”  
  
The two agents nodded, neither of them quite certain of his reaction to this assignment.  Illya knew that cloud seeding required airplanes, and that the method of getting to the THRUSH location was going to be by boat.  He sighed involuntarily at that thought.  Napoleon was looking forward to being on board the Gayle Wend, and smiled at the clever name.  Someone had a sense of humor, and he couldn’t help but wonder who.  
Exiting the office of Mr. Waverly, both men were deep in thought as they considered the days ahead.  
  


:++++++++:

 

Napoleon Solo scanned the horizon for a sign of anything with life, a shape or movement of some sort.  He sat on the beach of an isolated speck of land that might be categorized as an island, although he wasn’t entirely sure that it would merit such a label; the edge of its farthest shore was almost visible from where the injured man sat.  
  
Napoleon was almost certain that his arm was broken, although he still had the ability to move it slightly.  His mind was clouded from lack of water and food, so making a judgment about his physical condition seemed unwise.  Although, really … what difference would it make?  None.  Nothing would matter if help didn’t show up soon.  A grunt of discomfort broke his concentration, and Napoleon leaned over to check on his partner.  Illya had been unconscious for as long as they’d been here.  
  
“Hmmm… how long would that be, exactly?”  The words, his words, were the only sound aside from the waves lapping on the beach and an occasional birdcall.  Dense jungle occupied the land behind where Napoleon and Illya were sitting, and lying; not yet explored, the UNCLE agent wondered if there might be food within its shaded interior.  
  
“Wh… (cough)… Where are we?”  Kuryakin tried to sit up, but something prevented it as a searing pain forced him back down to the sandy bed upon which he was lying.  
  
“Good morning, or …’  Napoleon looked up and checked the sun once more; something he had done repeatedly in the past few hours.  “No, it’s afternoon now.  How do you feel, or should I even ask?”  Illya tried to raise his arm to shade his eyes from the sun that was directly overhead.  More pain stabbed at his shoulder, and a flashback of guns firing and the fiery jolt as a bullet penetrated flesh and muscle.  
  
“I’ve been better, although … ‘  Napoleon knew instinctively what was coming next.  They both had the unpleasant knowledge that  _better_  had been a long time ago, and the pain and misery of the job seemed more frequent sometimes than the victory of overcoming evil.  
  
“Yeah, I know.  Me too.”  Illya grimaced as he tried to brace himself with one hand and lever into a sitting position.  “Help me, Napoleon, I seem to be shot.”  Solo used his good arm to try and push his friend into place.  Both men grunted at the pain of their injuries, neither of them concerned at maintaining a false bravado on this desolate spot in the middle of an ocean.  
  
“Is there any chance that we’re on the backside of a heavily populated Caribbean island, and that a contingency of travel agents will come upon us and offer aid and comfort?”  The look on Illya’s face was absolutely earnest, so much so that Napoleon had to laugh at the absurd scenario in the Russians’ question.  “Did they hit you on the head, Illya?  No, to all of it.  I’m pretty sure THRUSH didn’t drop us on St. Martin or the Bahamas.  We’re stuck here, and it’s our own damn fault.”  
  
Illya was struck by the absolute lack of optimism that was normally exhibited by his partner.  He had little memory of how they had arrived here, probably due to the fact he  _had_ been hit on the head … again.  That and the bullet in his shoulder had rendered him senseless for a very long time, it seemed.  “Well, I thought perhaps there was a small chance.’  Illya stole a look at Napoleon, worried that without the American’s dependable buoyancy in situations like this, they might truly be lost.  “Do you have any idea how long it took to get here?  We might be able to figure out a general location… Napoleon?  Why are you shaking your head?”  
  
Napoleon  _was_  shaking his head, and the words in his mouth were coming out slowly and articulately.  “No, Illya, I do not know and we are in a lot of trouble this time.  We blew it back there when we let our guard down with that girl.’  Napoleon looked at his partner and noted the confused expression.  “Yes, I know, it was my fault.  I’m sorry, okay.  I didn’t follow your advice and she was THRUSH, and now … Now we’re stuck on this god-forsaken island and you and I are both in need of medical care and … ‘  Napoleon thrust his head into his one hand, the one not attached to a broken arm.   “I hope we make it, Illya.  I really do.  But this time … It’s bad.”  
  
The Russian rolled in the direction of his good arm and, with much effort and some loud grunting, he willed himself into a standing position.  A colorful bird flew overhead; an unusual sight even at the edge of a tropical forest.  Illya once again shaded his eyes against the glare of the sun, ignoring the silent protests from his partner as he struggled towards the water.  The protests became vocal as Illya let the tide lap at his feet, and then moved into waves that threatened to pull him out to sea.  
  
“Illya! What the … damned Russian.’’  Napoleon got up from his pessimism with just enough energy left to save his partner should the weakened man be drawn under a wave.  “Would you get back here… Illya!”  But the blond kept on, trudging against the force of nature farther out into the sea until nothing was visible except the mane of hair that cut like a beacon through day and night.  Napoleon relaxed a little when he realized the stubborn little Soviet was trying to clean the wound in his shoulder.  
  
“Oh, okay… I uh… I get it.”  That’s when something more forceful than an undulating rhythm caught Illya by the ankle and pulled him under.  Napoleon nearly shrieked at the sight of the blond head going down so quickly that no time was allowed for a response.  Just as quickly as he had gone down, Illya’s head popped up again, sputtering and cursing in Russian at something Napoleon vaguely recognized as grass.  
Seaweed.  It must have been seaweed that became tangled around Illya’s legs.  Good.  At least they could eliminate the threat of sea monsters.  For now.  
  
Napoleon reached his partner amidst the spewing and was able to lend his support to help him back to the beach.  That small amount of physical exertion had emptied the wounded man of his energy, and now both of them dropped to the hot sand, tired and hurting.  
  
And hungry.  “We need to find something to eat.  There will be something inside that mass of trees; we just need a way to get to it.  A little time to rest and I will go hunting for our meal.’  Illya looked at his partner, noticed for the first time the angle of his arm and how protective Napoleon was of it.  “Your arm is broken?  We need to set it.”  
  
“We?  And what about your arm, the one with the bullet inside?”  Illya shrugged, albeit lopsidedly.  It hurt, but he thought the salt water would have done some good and, besides, it was not as inhibiting as a broken arm.  “I believe I can function well enough.  We may need to make slings out of our shirts, however.  I suppose it is warm enough to not need much clothing.”  
  
Beneath a hot sun and very little cloud cover the two men set about on a mission.  Illya removed what was left of his shirt and fashioned a sling out of it, then did the same with Napoleon’s.  A piece of husk from a coconut palm was fashioned into a splint for Napoleon’s broken arm.  It looked like a jai alai racket to Illya, something he noted with amusement.  Unfortunately it would not see much action beneath his partner’s damaged arm.  
The coconuts became a primary focus for the Russian; they would serve as both liquid and food if he could manage to break them open.  The smallest bit of luck had left a knife intact in his left shoe, which was recovered a few feet away from where the two had awakened from their drug induced sleep.  If only a communicator was still someplace close by.  
  
With some difficulty Illya managed to construct a serviceable sling for Napoleon, with the husk within to support the injured arm.  This at least would keep it immobile, until they could have it set properly by a physician.  In spite of Napoleon’s earlier lapse, their activities now were beginning to revive his naturally optimistic nature, and he realized that nothing was impossible, especially with two UNCLE agents at work.  Still, without medical care the arm would not heal correctly.  There really was a time element in the need for escape from this island.  
  
Illya’s arm was also in a makeshift sling.  The bullet was lodged in his right shoulder, but with some ambidextrous abilities, the resourceful agent was managing to function reasonably well using only his left arm and hand.  The earlier dunking he had taken, while slightly invigorating, was beginning to wear off in its effect.  A sojourn into the jungle and his attempts to break up some coconuts had taken a toll, and now he was looking for a place to sit down and rest.  Napoleon noted how pale Illya was in spite of several hours in the sun; he was now complaining of being very hot.  He wasn’t sweating, and concerns of dehydration rose up and raised an alarm.  
  
“Illya, you don’t look so good.  Sit down and …’  Too late.  Illya fell down in a heap as Napoleon tried to gather him up and get him out of the sun. Illya had been pouring the coconut liquid into a single shell that was still resting atop a flat stone, and Napoleon began trying to get the listing Russian to drink a little of it.  Bad enough that he had lost so much blood, but a bout of dehydration was the last thing they needed right now.  
“Illya?  Come on buddy, drink this… There you go.’'  
  
Illya’s eyes fluttered open, not completely recognizing where he was or what had happened.  “Hey, don’t do that again.  You need to slow down for a while and rest, and drink some more of this stuff.”  Napoleon nodded to the coconut half shell and the liquid within.  They needed to find water, but until they did, this would have to suffice.  
  
“I am fine, just sleepy…”  And with that, Illya rolled onto his side cradling the lame arm.  Napoleon wasn’t sure if it was wise to let his partner sleep, but it didn’t seem as though it should hurt.  He couldn’t seem to remember the rules about things like this, and before long he was also asleep.  The two of them dozed contentedly for several hours, never aware of the spying eyes that watched them.  
  
As it turned out, this piece of island paradise really was inhabited by friendly folk.  So friendly, in fact, they ran a small hotel on the other side of the little island, catering to wealthy travelers, Hollywood types and heads of state.  The Hotel on Ragged Island was a secret, exclusive retreat that thrived for a few years as a favorite haunt of those in the know.  
  
It was a hunting expedition that led two of the hotel guests into the scene inhabited by the shipwrecked UNCLE agents.  In a search for the perfect secluded bit of beach, a pair of heiresses stumbled upon more than a spot for nude sunbathing.  Frightened at first by the sight of the ragged looking men, the young women eventually got up the nerve to creep ever so quietly to within a couple of yards of them.  
  
“Ooh, I see blood Camilla, on the blond.”  Camilla was speechless.  Two good looking men washed up on a beach in the Bahamas.  Was this a joke?  
“I say we wake them up and get them back to the hotel.’  She wondered then at the possibility of something truly awful.  “You don’t think they’re … dead, do you?”  
  
Clarice, the other girl, was shaking her head.  “Bloody hell, Cam, what are the chances…”  It was at this moment of consternation that Napoleon raised his head and looked at the beautiful sight of two bikini clad girls.   “Uh, excuse me, but …’  He tried to get up but his broken arm was making it difficult.  Camilla ran over to him and tried to help, then motioned for Clarice to get into the act.  
  
“Gee, thanks girls.  Ummm… where are we?  I seem to have lost my bearings.”  The conversation woke up the sleeping Russian, who groaned his way into a wakeful state.  He swore in a language neither woman recognized, adding to the bizarre nature of this encounter.  “Who are you two?  And where is he from? Are you two Yanks?”  The British heiresses were on the cutting edge of an emerging swinging London, but nothing in the clubs could rival finding two handsome men on a beach in the Bahamas.  Napoleon was willing to charm the nearly naked girls, but Illya needed medical attention and so did he.  
  
“Where did you come from … Camilla?  Is there a town close by?”  Getting back on the trail of the THRUSH installation would have to wait, and right now Napoleon was having trouble remembering the details of how they ended up …  
  
“Where are we?”  Clarice was kneeling next to Illya, who was still lying down in the sand.  His sling was soaked with blood, the flow resumed as his body warmed in the sun. “Your mate here needs a doctor.  The hotel has one, if we can get him up and across the dune.  The hotel isn’t far; nothing is far on this island.”  
  
Napoleon nodded his agreement, standing now with Camilla at his side.  Together the three managed to help Illya to his feet and bear his weight among them as they traipsed across the dunes and through the stand of trees.  Just beyond the coconut palms that had intrigued Illya, stood the Hotel on Ragged Island; Napoleon could just make out a flagpole adorned with a British flag.  It was a welcome sight to the agent, and he grimaced with pain once again at the thought of having his broken arm set.  
  
Illya was trying to break free of the supporting arms that encased him.  Grunting his way out of the constraints, he stumbled along doggedly while mumbling beneath his breath.  Shock was setting in from the loss of blood and dehydration, and delusion was not far off.  Napoleon attempted to rein him in as the girls watched, fascinated by what they were bringing back with them.  It was like a fishing expedition, only they had bagged a real prize.  The crowd back home in London would be duly impressed when this story made the rounds.  
  
By the time the quartet were within a few hundred yards of the hotel, they had been spotted by the doorman, whose job it was to be alert to the needs of all the hotel guests.  The sight of the two Hyde sisters and the ragged looking men was immediately a matter of concern, and within seconds four staff members were on their way to help get them safely inside.  
  
“Take them to our suite, and call the doctor please.” Camilla was issuing orders and organizing this event in her clipped British tones.  No point wasting time, the blond was very close to being all done in and the American… well, a broken arm wouldn’t deter her from claiming him for herself.  
By the time dusk was falling on the backside of Ragged Island, the UNCLE agents had been treated and given peace and quiet in order to start recuperating.  The Hyde sisters’ suite had more than enough room for sharing, and the bedroom with twin beds had been unused prior to the arrival of the patients who were now sleeping there.  
  
Illya was relieved of the bullet in his shoulder, stitched up properly and put into a deep sleep.  He was so exhausted from the ordeal that he never even put up a fight, a sure sign to his partner that the Russian had been seriously impaired.  For his part, the broken arm was set and a generous dose of pain killer administered.  As his memory cleared, the recently almost drowned Solo recalled that there was no longer any threat from the owner of the Gayle Wend.  The boat, along with the seeding conspiracy, had gone down into the depths of the ocean. He silently mourned the loss of such a brave vessel, sighing with resignation over the affair that almost was.  
  
The concerns over a THRUSH plan to thwart the natural order of the weather had not materialized, although the craft had been carrying plans for it. During the first few days onboard, Napoleon had become convinced that the woman who accompanied Arnie Cummings, a known THRUSH chief, was merely an innocent caught up in the allure of money and the sea.  He wouldn't say his guard was down, but Napoleon had found it necessary to admit being taken in by Stella Waring.  When a storm blew up unexpectedly, Illya had taken the opportunity to heave the files overboard; caught in the act he was shot by the lovely Stella.  It turned out she was a crack shot in addition to being a THRUSH operative.  Acting as skipper, Napoleon tried valiantly to keep the Gayle Wend under control, but between gunplay, fierce winds and waves, the boat began to break up beneath them.  Napoleon grabbed his partner and an inflated lifesaver and jumped overboard just before a ferocious wave capsized the boat, flinging all onboard into the water.  Arnie and Stella were lost at sea, along with the brave Gayle Wend.  
  
Now, lying here in this hotel room, Napoleon was having a hard time reconciling those frantic moments and the relative ease of his current surroundings.  Illya was going to recover, and quickly he assumed.  His arm would heal.  Mr. Waverly had been informed of the situation and recommended that they remain here for several more days until they were fit to travel.  
  
A rumbling from beneath the covers on the next bed alerted Solo that his partner was waking up.  The blond hair emerged from beneath sheets more luxurious than either man’s best shirts.  This truly was a rich man’s hideaway.  “Gde my nakhodimsya?”  
  
“The Bahamas, on Ragged Island.  In the Hotel on Ragged Island.  How are you feeling?”   Illya moaned as he attempted to sit up, the stitches pulling along the still sore wound.  “I feel like I have been shot.  And beaten.  And drowned.  How about you?”  
  
A smile creased the handsome face as Napoleon considered how bad it might have been, and of the pretty Gayle Wend.  He regretted the loss of the that fine craft, and thought once again of his first response to her.  Yes, she was yar.  
  
“I’m good, tovarisch.  And the old man says we should stay here a few days until we’re able to travel.”  Illya was crawling out of the bed, heading for the bathroom.  “That is very good, Napoleon.  I want to stay on dry land for as long as possible.  Please…’  The Russian turned to look at his friend, a sorry expression on the boyish face.  “…please, do not put me on a boat in the middle of the ocean any time soon.  I need the earth beneath my feet.”  
  
“I promise Illya, as much as it is within my power, to not set sail any time soon.   _Unless, of course, some maniac with a big ship does something to get Mr. Waverly’s attention_.  But, really…’  Napoleon winked, hoping to allay any distress for his seasick prone partner… “what’s the likelihood of  _that_  happening?”  
  
Illya, in an uncharacteristic bout of naiveté, was satisfied with Napoleon's reassurance.


End file.
